


a matter of business

by allgrift



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 20:28:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9016276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allgrift/pseuds/allgrift
Summary: It's simple: Kyle Fitzpatrick is many things, including a pianist, a Julliard graduate, erstwhile stage manager in Fleet Hall. He is also Hector Rodriguez's adversary. His nemesis. It's all perfectly professional, of course.





	

The first time you see Cohen’s new boytoy, you don’t think that’s what he is. 

He’s sitting at the bar near the Garden of the Muses, spindly legs hunched up in front of him, feet stacked on the rung of his barstool like eggs on an icebox shelf. 

He seems like he’s trying to avoid taking up space, from the way he moves the martini to his mouth to the bar and back again. In fact, he’s nearly dwarfed by the splayed hands of a potted plant, which rises at the edge of the bar in a giant urn, for that naturalistic effect they’re trying so hard to achieve. This is the place where poets flirt, where ingénues flirt for the newest best role. You should know- you used to be one of them. 

He projects an air of lost brilliance, and he’s wearing a green tweed jacket, of all things.   
It’s the tweed jacket that throws you off, misleads you, when you start to move toward him.   
You expect to see strands of white in his red hair, but there’s no such thing, just neatly combed and parted red hair.   
His neck rises above the throat of his white shirt, his chin almost spritely. He’s much younger than you thought he was: that face has no wrinkles, his hands are long and graceful and untouched by any type of arthritis, and his mouth forms a cupid’s bow that looks ready to speak, almost as red as though it were painted there. 

“Oh, hello,” he says, one of his thin hands fluttering nervously around his glass. Playing with the olive. Even that motion is self-contained, echoing the way he draws his limbs carefully as he perches on the barstool. 

You sprawl in comparison. Your limbs are ungainly, your movements lack grace. But some compunction makes you offer him your hand. You wonder if he notices the dirt under your nails. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” you say. A nicety, for a boy who looks as though he’s never so much as thought of dirt. 

“Hector Rodriguez, nice to meet you,” and you push your hand towards him a little farther. He takes it without hesitation (it is, after all, the thing to do, and you get the impression that he’s that kind of guy) and you shake hands. 

“Kyle Fitzpatrick.” He looks down at your conjoined fingers, which have somehow gotten entangled, and you unravel your hand swiftly before he gets a chance to note the grime.   
“As you may have surmised, I’m a newcomer to Rapture. It’s all a bit overwhelming.” 

“I’ll say,” you reply, because it’s something you can agree on. “I remember my first time. New York City to under the Atlantic Ocean- would you believe I cried for the first week I was here? I missed it, I missed the city. Of course, Rapture has its own air, but it takes time to acclimate.” 

He looks you up and down, and you wonder if he’s sussed out the lie- you’ve never been a crier, although you hated Rapture for the first year or so after your descent, that much is true. (To be more accurate, you hated Rapture and loved her in bursts and starts during your first year, as quickly as the tides moved.) 

“Well, I can sympathize with that. I’m from Schenectady, upstate New York, and I’m already missing trees and grass.” He stops himself, frowns. “That’s not completely true- I spent the last four years at Julliard, in New York City-“ 

“I know where Julliard is,” you counter, a bit more harshly than you intended. You don’t like the fleeting frown that momentarily slips over his features though, so you edit.   
“I mean, everyone knows where Julliard is. Nice to meet a fellow New Yorker.” 

He grins, and you’re rewarded at once.

No way are you going to out yourself as a Jersey native to the Julliard grad. 

“So, which instrument do you play, or are you an actor? I’ll warn you though- if you’re an actor, you’re on my turf.” 

You grin broadly, to cover any rancor you might actually carry. 

(As it turns out, you do carry rancor, and most of it is directed at people who make their mark in academia. Kyle’s lucky. He’s attractive.)

Kyle laughs, barely stifled behind his hand. God, even that gesture is self contained. You can see his life before Rapture now: a string of private academies, then Julliard, then a mysterious means through which he arrived in Rapture. He’s so cleancut. It makes you want to put a dent in that tweed, really see what’s underneath the nice manners and the styled hair.

“Which instrument?” He’s cocky. It would be obnoxious if he wasn’t a willow-thin sylph with floating hands. 

“Yeah, which instrument,” and some of the Jersey slips through your voice, because you’ve had a few drinks since you woke up this morning and you’re getting frustrated with Mr. Julliard here. 

“I play six, so that’s a bit of a tall order,” he says. “That’s what I had to explain to Mr. Cohen as well- he attended one of my piano recitals, and then he asked for a short interview. Long story short, here I am.” 

He gives a brief shrug, as though that’s all there is to it. 

Cohen. 

“Sander Cohen?” you ask, even though you already know the answer. He looks surprised, and you realize that your tone gave away your anger: you’re suddenly brimming with it. Some of it must have overflowed, spilling into your voice, betraying you. 

“Yes, of course,” he says, and gives his martini a sip. 

It all makes sense. 

Young.

Handsome. 

And trained at Julliard. You’ve been replaced for a vastly superior model, and there’s no ignoring it. 

“Well, you’ll find Fort Frolic is much different from Julliard,” you say. “We’ll see how you do once you’re actually on stage.” 

“I’ve been on stage before,” he protests. Your eyes glaze over as he reels off a line of different places he’s performed in. Carnegie Hall is among them, you note with rancor. 

“Of course you have.” 

He looks taken aback, places his drink down on the bar. “Are you angry with me?” he asks; his voice quavers for a moment before he can get it back under control. 

“No. No, I’m not angry,” you lie. “I just hope you’ve got a contract with Cohen, that’s all. He’s got a contract with Martin, and with Silas, and with me. I wouldn’t…. how to put this. I wouldn’t want you to get into an awkward situation. You look like you’re the kind of guy who likes to do things the right way.” 

“He hasn’t said anything about a contract,” Kyle says slowly. You hope he’s thinking about it. You hope it’s eating him a little. 

“Oh,” you say, as though you’re completely confused by this turn of events. “Well, he must have forgotten to mention it to you, that’s all.” 

Those long fingers flutter away from his martini, to tent nervously above his knees. He swallows. 

“We haven’t had time,” he says, and you have to admire his composure a little. But only a little.   
“There’s been so much going on. Agreements, discussions, practicing- and then there was the trip here, of course. They’re still moving all my possessions into the apartment he’s prepared for me.” 

He smiles, more stiffly than before. “You said you were an actor under his employ, right? Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t look like much of an actor.” 

What in the hell did an “actor” look like? He had some nerve. 

“What do you mean by that?” You put your hands on your knees, to hide the fact that they’re clenched tight. 

“I just meant that you look as though you took a less than traditional path to become an actor. You don’t exactly look classically trained.”   
He’s stirring his martini with its little straw, perfectly composed. You’d like to dump the contents of his dainty glass into his face. 

“The best teacher is experience, and I’ve been acting since I was fifteen years old. Competition in New York is fierce, and I did all right there.” Never mind that you’re no longer in New York City. It was a strategic career move. 

"Well, as you said, we aren't in New York." He doesn’t look at you directly, just sips at his martini as though you’re at a fucking garden party in Arcadia, discussing the colors of the new spring flowers. "I'm sure you're wholly competent, though. Far be it from me to doubt Sander Cohen's judgment!"   
Nervous laughter. Almost squawk-like. 

“You aren’t in New York, either,” you snap back. “You’re in Rapture now.” 

You aren’t even masking your anger now. 

“You’ll want to stay in Sander Cohen’s good graces. Just a tip for you. Free of charge.” 

You get up, shoving your stool back with a screech. People’s heads are turning toward you. You don’t care. Instead, you turn, and head back toward Fleet Hall. You don’t have to put up with this bullshit. 

On the way, Silas flags you down, a stack of records still in their sleeves filling his arms.

“Hey, Hector!” 

You stop. 

“Yeah?” 

“You seen the new meat Cohen hired yet? Pianoboy. He’s supposed to be amazing with instruments, but we all know who’s gonna have to pick up the slack if he’s all ass and no talent.” 

He stabs his free hand at his own chest.

“You won’t have to worry about that,” you tell him. “He’s talented, all right, but he’s a stuck-up snob.”

“How so?” 

You sigh, a noise full of everything you’ve had to put up with today. It’s mostly inspired by Kyle. 

“He’s a Julliard grad,” you tell him.

Silas shakes his head. “You have got to lose that chip on your shoulder, Hector. He might be perfectly nice. You don’t know.” 

“I just talked to him!” you yell after Silas’s retreating back. Cup your hands, like a megaphone, around your mouth. 

“He’s an asshole!”


End file.
